Blood is Always Beautiful
by Twistedmaniac
Summary: On snow, against his own pale flesh, spattered against walls with a body slumped to the ground below…blood was always beautiful. DracoLucius incest


Disclaimer: The plot, dialogue, and several other choice details do happen to belong to me, but the rest is all J.K Rowling's.

Introduction: Hello, my name is Twistedmaniac. My name is not randomly picked; I am twisted, I am a maniac, and my stories reflect me and some of my experiences. If you've read my other stories, you'll know this. These stories are fucked up. I suppose I should give you the specifics.

This fic contains: Incest, (Malfoycest) slash, self mutilation and possibly other forms of self harm, it may contain rape, (I don't know yet, this story isn't planned out at all) violence, sadism, language, probably a few other things.

Other disclaimer: I don't want to be held responsible for any of you getting triggered or upset. If you do, big surprise, I warned you. That's your problem not mine, okay? You have problems with cutting and you want to stop, don't read this story. You can flame all you want, but please, make actual points. All my other flames were shit. I know you can do better.

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Draco Lucius Malfoy sat in the Slytherin common room, lying near the fire on the black tile. He was lying on his back, long fingers clasped across his chest, staring at the mural on the ceiling. His eyes roamed over it, unseeing and uncaring.

Long, thick serpents chasing each other around the rim, deadly fangs dripping with salvia or various poisons, all in varying shades of green, black, and gray. In the center curled a giant dragon with faint issues of smoke curling from its nostrils, curving horns, and obsidian scales. In between were various small other beasts and creatures, none of which Draco gave a rat's ass about. His mind was on other things.

It was the silent hour of 3: 22 a.m. He knew this because of the Muggle watch he saw in his peripheral vision. He didn't even take the time to muse over the fact that there was a Muggle object in the Slytherin common room of all places.

His father would be arriving to take him back to Malfoy Manor roughly twelve hours later tomorrow, at platform 9 ¾ after the Hogwarts Express deposited him there.

Absently, he drew back the sleeve to his shirt, unhooking the thumbs first. It was a trick he had learned from Potter, of all people, with his Muggle clothing. Cut holes for the thumbs, the sleeves won't go up and no one would bother him. He could care less if they saw and were shocked. It was the questions, the people sticking their fucking noses into his life that threatened to drive him sane.

Draco's eyes darkened. Those _fucking_ looks they gave him. The ones that said, _Look at how that one turned out. What a pity. _The saintly look they get when they decide to baby-sit him and befriend him out of the goodness of their idiotic little hearts. The worst had been when that bloody Gryffindor had taken upon herself to keep him _safe_. Told him why not to, demanded that he hand over whatever tools he was using to inflict the wounds.

Draco would have rolled his eyes had they not already been on the ceiling. He had a wand. Not to mention enough weapons to supply an army, on his body, in his dorm, and more back at The Manor. That and you can hurt yourself on so many things. He didn't need 'sharps' as she had called them. Lavender Brown. Stupid bitch.

He had put his foot on her stomach, and ground her into the floor, wand pointed at her throat. After hurting her…just a little…he had erased her memory. As he had done with the sole other who had blundered upon his little…hobby. He didn't care to remember her name. Some little Hufflepuff.

He'd been doing this for several years now. He had had to look up a spell that would get rid of some of the old scars to make room for the new. Though he would never, not for any reason, take away the marks his father gave him. Only the ones he inflicted upon himself at Hogwarts, or at least some of them. After all, he didn't want his body to be overrun with the things. Out of everyone in Hogwarts, he was the best looking, aside from Potter, of course.

He was a freaking god, and everyone knew it. And yet, he was named the Ice Prince, for he never so much as gave his adoring worshipers a second glance. Young men and women alike, from first years to even some of the professors; many were tormented by his indifferent presence during the day and couldn't escape from him even in sleep. And the very fact that he didn't seem to notice this only made him more alluring.

Nor did he really care. He wore what was closest to his hands, showered every morning but never even brushed his hair anymore. And still he was unbelievably gorgeous. Tomorrow he would make the effort that he only exerted when it meant seeing Lucius.

He traced the newest mark with a nail. It hurt. As it should. If it didn't hurt, didn't bleed, than he wasn't pressing hard enough and had not cut deep enough. Which was never the case; the last slash he had made, the tip of the dagger had scraped bone.

Blood almost immediately welled up out of the skin that had only just begun to heal, to trickle down his forearm and drip to the black tile that he lay on.

Draco brought the nail up to his face, his thumb nail. A bead of blood rolled down the sharp tip of the nail and down his thumb. Long, and sharpened to a point. Damn useful. There was a lesson he had learned early on. Life didn't fight fair: you wanted to win, you used every advantage you had.

Even if he had friends (and it was not for lack of not being able to make them) and they knew of his little…hobbey, they wouldn't understand. They would never understand why.

He didn't do it for the endorphins. Fuck that. He wasn't some loser that the only happiness in his life would last for about five seconds and would be from spilling his own blood.

For attention? He spent his life at Hogwarts _avoiding_ attention, not seeking it. Besides…not too pathetic.

Draco Malfoy, a masochist? His lips curved in the barest of smirks. That was only an added bonus.

Working up the courage to kill himself?

Once again, not too pathetic. His life was spent battling against all odds _not_ to die. The only reason he would slit his wrists and not bother to try and live was if the one in his thoughts ever died. If it was death he wanted and was too cowardly to do it himself, it was only too easy to achieve it.

Depression?

He never got depressed. He literally did not.

Draco Malfoy closed his eyes briefly and stopped amusing himself with the thousands of discarded ways of why he should be doing this to himself. No. Draco knew why.

Yes, he was a masochist, yes he loved blood, and yes, there was something beautiful in the moment the knife bit into his flesh…but that wasn't the real reason. Maybe he would otherwise, but still.

Draco shied his thoughts away from that subject and allowed himself to picture the blood. Fresh blood was screaming red. On snow, against his own pale flesh, spattered against walls with a body slumped to the ground below…blood was always beautiful.

The unbidden image of his father, pale blond hair streaked with crimson, the blood almost shimmering on his lips, and then the sensual tongue that caught the blood before it fell, came into mind. He had been so covered in Draco's blood. Draco let himself be lost in the memory for a moment. He could almost hear his soft laughter…

Draco wasn't surprised. All thoughts of his eventually ended upon Lucius Malfoy. It was incredible, but that's how it was. For example, when he thought of the two simple words; his title; the Ice Prince, he knew the real reason why he was alone. He could get anyone he wanted, to fuck or even to hold hands with and worry about (Draco mentally gagged) at any moment. Oh how easy it would be.

It was because he belonged to one person, and that person alone. Lucius Malfoy.

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It was true. Draco had tried, Merlin, had he _tried_. Tried kissing someone that wasn't the blond aristocrat, and before that simply trying to mildly enjoy their company. The end results were always the same.

Draco would feel distantly guilty, ashamed, like he couldn't get clean. He would wind up getting very angry with the person for no real reason.

After as little as a week of this, Draco was stopped short by two things. Christmas and the fact that he had silently, without actually thinking the words or deciding to swear it, sworn never to be with anyone else.

Lucius had helped with the decision, in person, over the holidays.

Now it had gotten to the point that anyone that wasn't Lucius Malfoy who touched him got the living shit beaten out of him, unless it was out of the utmost necessity, and even then it made him feel sick and outwardly irritable. He didn't want to talk to anyone that wasn't him, unless, again, it was necessary, like for classes.

Once a fourth year girl had not been able to realize this until it was much too late. She had basically stalked him. Followed him, wrote about him, dreamed about him, used every excuse to talk to him or "coincidentally" bend over in front of him, or lean across a table with a very low shirt on, smiling and giggling.

Draco had tolerated it for a grand total of two days.

The second day she had hugged him from behind. It was in a crowded hallway, and he was reading while walking.

Flashback

"_Draco!" Marie flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I haven't seen you since – "_

_That was as far as she got. The soft wet sound of flesh being penetrated in a spray of blood was curiously notable amid the normal laughing and talking. She gasped, and stumbled backwards, a knife embedded in her thigh. Draco whirled around, and kicked her, in one liquid motion, in the stomach. She crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from the wound, the wind knocked out of her. _

_She was gasping and wheezing for breath, tears spilling from her eyes as people started to scream and run for Madam Pomfrey and any and all professors. But her eyes were all for Draco._

_He stood above her, book held in one hand, the other holding his wand. The wand was pointed steadily at her. _

"_Word of advice, Marie," Draco said coolly, eyes bright and angry. "There are many things I don't like, among them being surprises, hugs, and most especially, yourself."_

"_Why would you do that?" she whispered, her own wounded feelings overpowering the pain in her leg. _

"_I just told you," Draco said sharply. "I hope all of you got the message, too, because it applies to every single one of you."_

_To emphasize his words, he pointed his wand at the shocked people watching as he spoke. He shot the whimpering girl a last scathing look, and turned on his heel, leaving her to bleed on the floor. _

_Curiously enough, no one seemed to know who had stabbed Marie when questioned. The thought of Draco's cold, empty face when the knife slid home and he kicked her was enough to seal their mouths. _

From then on, he had had surprisingly little trouble with people touching him.

The Slytherin fingered the silver dagger in his right hand. There were plenty of weapons hidden all over his body and among his things. Wizards and witches consider wands the biggest threat, but they never really look for anything else.

He didn't even consciously know where he had pulled the dagger from until he thought about it. The fluid change from concealed stillness to his hand had been instant and elegant in its familiar movement. Like when he had drawn the knife on Marie. No one had seen the knife before it had come out, and no one had seen it until she was staggering back with it shoved to the hilt in her thigh with blood leaking everywhere.

The reason for the cuts and the few other self harm methods he used were for none of the aforementioned reasons. It was difficult to put into words. He pulled the collar of the shirt down and rested the blade's tip against the flesh. A silent sigh escaped his lips as the blade bit into just below his bare collarbone. He closed his eyes as the blood weaved from the cut and down his chest and wished it was Lucius Malfoy holding the blade. Like he would be tomorrow after the indifferent charade ended and he was home.

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A/N: I didn't even realize it until the end, but now I get it. Somehow my thoughts are in there. I cannot stand being touched and …yeah, I got tired of reading stories where people talked about self harm and had no fucking idea what they were talking about. So here it is. I'm sorry to all of you reading the two other stories I'm writing now; I was so pissed when I got the idea for this story, hehe, because I'm writing three other fulltime stories. But I couldn't _not_ write this. Anyhow, I'll stop talking, I just want you to know; I need an opinion. Do you want this to be a one-shot or a story? Because I could actually end it here. ((shrugs)) Flames are welcome, reviews are worshipped, please tell me your honest thoughts.


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